


What Use Is Our Work?

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always1895, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sherlock, Injury Recovery, Mrs Hudson gets hurt, My first ever fic without smut, No Smut, Other, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “Blood,” he whispered, startling John and making the doctor look towards Mrs Hudson. Sherlock noticed and shook his head, “My hands. I have blood on my hands,”Unsure if Sherlock was speaking metaphorically or figuratively, John turned to look at Sherlock who held up his streaked red hands in the bright light of the room.“It’s not hers,” John whispered, taking Sherlock's wrist firmly and pulling it down so it rested on his lap. “It’s not hers.”





	What Use Is Our Work?

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to Gem for helping me write, and Fin_Amour for giving suggestions and editing this nonsense.
> 
> Wanted to be part of the Always1895 challenge, so here it is. Something angsty and none smutty.
> 
> TW for violence, stabbing and recovery. 
> 
> Title taken from a quote from Ripper Street as that is what inspired me to write this.

Sherlock sat still beside the bed, head low and eyes red and sore as he looked over at the trembling, pale shape in the hospital gurney. Mrs Hudson stirred and groaned in pain, her swollen and bruised eyes cringing with each agonised movement as she attempted to find peace and solace in a sleep that wouldn't come.

Silently entering the private room, John watched from the doorway as Sherlock's pale, blood-stained hands tensed around the silver safety bars on the bed. As a doctor, John had seen enough worried family members at a loved one’s bedside to know that they needed reassurance, to be told that everything would be okay—but he couldn't do that for Sherlock. He couldn't lie. It was too early. Mrs Hudson’s condition was still too critical for John to make a full diagnosis like that, and he knew Sherlock would see right through it.

John already knew that Sherlock would be blaming himself. That he wasn't quick enough, that he wasn't smart enough. John had followed Sherlock into the small warehouse where the suspect in their latest case had stashed Mrs Hudson after kidnapping her during her weekly bus ride to the Bingo Hall. Their landlady had fought with all her might— kicking, screaming and biting at her attackers until she had been knocked unconscious.

That would have been bad enough. John was incandescent with rage when he had first spotted Mrs Hudson's black-ringed eyes.

Sherlock had solved the case, located his landlady, his friend, and rushed off with John, barely able to keep up. Sherlock hadn't contacted Scotland Yard until they were almost at the warehouse—giving the police a seven-minute delay.

As Sherlock and John burst in, the attackers were obviously surprised at how quickly the detective had reached them. They had expected more time to plan their next move,—a move which was thwarted when John and Sherlock beat the four of them up. Only the black-clad leader had been left behind, and as he had stood beside Mrs Hudson, he smirked a dark and dangerous smile before slamming his blade into her stomach.

Sherlock had lost his mind. Gone crazy with bloodlust as he had tackled the kidnapper and beat him to a pulp as John raced to Mrs Hudson to begin emergency First Aid. He hadn’t had his medical kit or even the contents of a first aid kit to keep her stable, but he had been able to keep her awake, stemming the bleeding until the emergency services arrived

After that, it had been a blur of colours, lights and shapes as the two blood-stained men had been whisked towards the hospital. Sherlock, almost catatonic in shock as he had looked down at his blood-smeared fists. John had not been sure if the blood had been the attacker’s or Sherlock's own, but he hadn’t dared speak. As Sherlock had stepped out of the police car before it had even rolled to a stop, John had followed as quickly as he could, watching  as Sherlock had barked at staff until he could reach the secured ward that Mrs Hudson had already been taken to. She was already in emergency surgery and been listed as critical.

John had known that stab wounds as deep, jagged and awful as hers were usually fatal. He tried to remain calm, but inside he had been flaming with anger.

A noise brought John from his memories, bringing him back to the present as he looked over at Sherlock’s slumped shape against the hospital bed.

“Why?” Sherlock whispered, turning to look at John who was still stood in the doorway, backlit by the horrendous fluorescent lighting. “Why her, John? Why did it have to be her?”

“I don't know,” John admitted quietly, walking to Sherlock's side, and putting a tentative hand on the detective's shoulder.

“I should have saved her… I should have – I could have – John...” Sherlock begun before his voice had broken, tears streaming down his cheeks to soak the collar of his coat.

“This isn't your fault,” John said as he twisted so that he was half-facing Sherlock, only able to see the man's striking profile. _Even in utter despair, the man was breathtaking._

Sherlock cried silent, broken sobs, chest heaving with the effort of bringing in breath as he l looked over at Mrs Hudson.

“She looks so small...” he whispered, voice cracked and full of sorrow, “...like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest.”

John had to agree as he looked at Mrs Hudson. She had always seemed so full of life and sprightly, even with her dodgy hip. But looking at her in the large bed, curled up and shaking in pain, she looked every bit the frail pensioner.

Pulling up a chair, John sat beside Sherlock and placed a hand softly on his knee. There had been no sexual feelings in the gesture, but John suddenly felt overwhelmed with the intimacy as he sat silently beside his best friend, listening to the steady beep from the heart rate monitor and the occasional groan from the bed.

They sat in silence for over an hour. Sherlock counting Mrs Hudson's breaths, and John watching Sherlock. It wasn't until Sherlock moved to put his large hand on Martha's that he spoke, breaking the tenseness in the room,

“Blood,” he whispered, startling John and making the doctor look towards Mrs Hudson. Sherlock noticed and shook his head, “My hands. I have blood on my hands,”

Unsure if Sherlock was speaking metaphorically or figuratively, John turned to look at Sherlock who held up his streaked red hands in the bright light of the room.

“It’s not hers,” John whispered, taking Sherlock's wrist firmly and pulling it down so it rested on his lap. “It’s not hers.”

“I need to get it off,” Sherlock baulked, standing up so quickly that he knocked over the chair. It seemed deafeningly loud in the small space. “I have to – I have to clean them.”

“Okay, okay, we can,” John insisted quietly. Standing up more calmly, he shepherded Sherlock towards the small, sterile, pastel bathroom attached to Mrs Hudson's room. It was large enough to fit a hoist and wheelchair, which gave John enough room to manhandle Sherlock through the doors. “Take your coat off,” John said as he began running the hot water.

Sherlock slipped his coat off rapidly, letting it fall to the floor in a rush of heavy fabric before striding towards the sink and throwing his hands under the water, his slim fingers scrubbing at the dried crimson at his knuckles.

John could only watch as Sherlock sobbed, scrubbing harder and harder before adding soap. It came away a pink colour to be washed down the drain, leaving a scummy mark around the sink.

All of Sherlock's energy seemed to disappear as he suddenly slumped, almost bashing his head against the mirror opposite as he began to tremble, his breathing hitching in a way which John recognised as hyperventilation.

“What use is our work?” Sherlock asked, his voice barely a whisper above the running tap.“What use is our work, if we cannot protect the ones we love?”

John was about to answer but found that words wouldn't come. He couldn't comfort Sherlock, he couldn't give him empty platitudes, not when Sherlock was feeling so vulnerable and responsible. Hesitating for a brief second, John turned, cautiously moving to wrap his arms around Sherlock's long, trembling body.

All of the breath and tension seemed to leave Sherlock as he lurched forward and returned the embrace awkwardly, his hands grabbing at any part of John he could, seeking comfort and reassurance. John was stunned at Sherlock's intense hug, but returned it as best he could, shushing him quietly as Sherlock buried his nose into John's neck while he sobbed. The smaller man could feel wetness seeping across his collar and over his skin, but used his hand to push into the back of Sherlock's hair, bringing him closer as he whispered again and again. “It's okay. You're okay. I've got you, you're alright now.”

John wasn't sure how long the hug lasted, but he knew that Sherlock was exhaustedly swaying on his feet. Shock wearing off, leading to fatigue. Unwilling to break his hold, John did the only thing he could, slowly lowering them to the floor of the bathroom. He tucked Sherlock up against his side, holding him close as they positioned themselves on top of the Belstaff.

“I don't want her to die,” Sherlock croaked, giving sad, pathetic sniffles between each wet breath. “I don't, John. What will I do without her?”

“We have to be positive,” John soothed in response, nudging his nose into Sherlock's curls, which had started to stick to his forehead with perspiration. “She's a tough old bird. She'll fight.”

Sherlock's long arms tensed around John's body as he pressed himself hotly against John's side, pushing and trying desperately to get closer, seeking comfort or distraction.

“She's strong,” John continued, “and she knows we're rooting for her. She knows she's loved, so she'll come back to us.”

“She cant leave us,” Sherlock responded, “I'll die of scurvy.”

John laughed wetly, his own eyes misting with tears, as he reached across and placed a tender, single kiss against Sherlock's forehead. It was probably inappropriate for two flatmates to be sitting like this, crying and seeking comfort, but John found that he couldn't care any less. Sherlock needed him, and he needed Sherlock.

“Stay positive, and stay strong,” John said into Sherlock's hair, resting his nose on the top of Sherlock's head. “She's going to need us.”

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, if you don't stop pushing me, I swear to god above I'm going to poison your tea,” Mrs Hudson shouted through gritted teeth as she took another shaky step. “I've told you— I'm tired.”

“And I told you that you need to be able to go to the toilet by yourself before you're able to leave this blasted hospital. So come on, Woman! Get to it.” Sherlock clapped twice, “Less grumbling, more urinating.”

Mrs Hudson ground her teeth, closing her eyes and summoning whatever strength she had left to take another step with her walker. It was hard work, and her stomach hurt with each step, but Sherlock was right – of course – she desperately wanted to go home after weeks of sleeping in a lumpy hospital bed, she desperately wanted to go home and sleep in her own.

It took time and a lot of sweat before she reached the door handle and smiled with satisfaction. It wasn't exactly the moon landing, but it was something she wouldn’t have accomplished without Sherlock's prodding.

She knew he felt guilty about what happened, the silly boy, but she had tried to explain that he didn't need to. She knew the risks when she rented out the flat to him and the good doctor, and she harboured no ill will. Plus, it wasn't the first time she had been kidnapped. It wasn't even the first time she had been stabbed – _you don't get to be the wife of the mob boss without a few knife fights,_ she had explained, but Sherlock was still rushing around after her.


End file.
